


Filling in the Gaps

by ablativeofyourmotherssorrow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Halloween, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, The Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23976397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ablativeofyourmotherssorrow/pseuds/ablativeofyourmotherssorrow
Summary: A series of one-shots filling in plot holes and answering the questions that are arising from my recent Harry Potter re-read. Up now: 1. How Dumbledore Got His London Underground Scar2. October 31-November 2, 1981 (The Missing 24 Hours)3. The Missing 9 Uses of Dragon's Blood
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Kudos: 22





	1. Mind the Gap, or How Dumbledore Got His London Underground Scar

London Underground. Late Summer, 1898.

“I truly think that vas it,” a sandy-haired teenager huffed. Pointing at the large clock hanging above him, he added, “It just left a minute early.”

A second pair of bright blue eyes found the clock. Three or four times the size of a man’s head, it hung just to the left of an entrance hallway. One could see why muggles called it the “Tube” – the arched ceiling gave the boys the sense that they were sitting inside a large, hollowed-out tree trunk. The walls were tiled light brown, and the roar of a steam train faded into the distance of the outstretched void leading, presumably, to central London. The two teenagers were the only people in the tube station, sitting on a lone bench fastened to the wall; they had, indeed, foolishly not boarded the train which had left with everyone else moments before.

“I suppose you’re right, Gellert, but I do wonder – if Muggles can tell time with machines, why don’t they bother to follow their own schedules?” The boy’s lips turned up ever so slightly, as if daring his companion to argue. 

Gellert lifted his eyebrows, a number of retorts on his tongue, but seemed to reconsider. Instead, he pulled his wand out of his coat pocket and began to twirl it idly. “Do you think the Ollivander sisters vill be forthcoming?”

The second man chuckled. “Helen Ollivander graduated from Hogwarts two years before I. She is… ah, forthcoming to any man who pays her mind.”

“And did you? Pay her mind?”

“Do I sense _jealousy_ , Gellert? I can charm women, too, you know.” 

Gellert snorted. “Helen is an apprentice, though, is she not? The eldest runs the shop. If the location of the Wand is a secret the Ollivander family holds, we should focus on her.”

The second boy nodded. “Yes. Why don’t we try both? I will charm–” Gellert narrowed his eyes – “I will _speak to_ Helen, and you can discuss the matter with Esther. It wouldn’t surprise me if she knew more about the wand-making world than her late father ever did. She misses nothing.”

Gellert Grindelwald glanced at the clock and sighed again. “This is a vaste of time, Albus. Ve could have been there and gone by now. Ve could be eating dear Kendra’s _blueberry pie_ and drafting a new plan for our search already. Ve could be having a friendly duel, or practicing our-”

“Oh, practice on this,” Albus said as he chucked a crumpled up piece of paper at Gellert’s head. In a sing-song voice, he continued, “Besides, the journey is just as important the destination.” 

“HA! Someday, you vill entrance the 11-year-olds with your _words of wisdom_ ,” – for a moment, Gellert slipped into a mocking English accent – “and Professor Dumbledore vill be the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts has ever seen. But ve vill never find the Hallows if you get distracted by such nonsense now.” As he spoke, he waved his wand in interlocking triangular patterns. The crumpled paper Albus had thrown at him floated off the bench, unfolded, refolded into the shape of a wrinkled hat, and came to rest on Albus’ head. 

“Sonitum movete _,_ ” Gellert finished, and as he began to speak, his voice emerged from the transfigured “hat” instead of his own mouth. It was a map of the entire London Underground, and the mouth - coincidentally, the line they were attempting to travel - opened to say, “My name is Albus Percival Volfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and Chief Varlock of the Vizengamot–”

“And Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and former Minister of Magic –”

“Yes, yes, those too,” Gellert waved him off. “I am the second most powerful vizard in the vorld, possessor of two Deathly Hallows, devoted partner to _the_ Gellert Grindelvald. And I must share vith you the most _important_ of thoughts: Nitwit! Blubber!”

Albus barely even pretended to suppress his smile. He placed his hand on Gellert’s shoulder and, looking deep into his eyes, responded ever so gravely, “ _My dear friend_.” He paused, lowering his voice to a whisper, and as if revealing a dark secret, finished, “The students at Hogwarts must _know_ : Oddment. Tweak.” 

They stared into each other’s eyes for a full, heavy three seconds, then simultaneously broke into howling laughter that echoed throughout the empty tube station. Albus gripped both of his thighs and doubled over, while Gellert leaned back and hooted at the ceiling. Clutching his side and breathing heavily, Grindelwald asked, “Vat is funnier? A distinguished Headmaster of Hogwarts convincing the first years that he is a lunatic? Or you–” he stopped laughing and, though still with a glint in his eye, placed his hand on top of Albus’, resting both on Dumbeldore’s thigh. “You, being my _dear friend_?” 

The last echoes of their laughter still bounced off the rounded walls, but now both boys breathed heavily in a weighted silence. Albus waved his wand; the transfigured hat unfolded back into the Underground map and floated slowly towards the ground in front of him. It almost seemed to cut the tension palpable between the two young men, but suddenly, with one swift motion, Gellert stood and faced Albus, who still sat on the bench. In the split second Albus realized what was happening, Gellert had already cast his first curse, and a bright light flashed between them. A fiery image of the tube map blazed in the air where the paper map had still been falling, but the paper itself disintegrated, leaving only the fiery ghost of the map, in perfect detail, still smoking its magic between them.

With this, a duel began between Dumbledore and Grindelwald, and -- as the case was so often with them – they both continued to smile, eyes locked on each other’s, their manic obsession visible through these windows.

The rapid fire of spells was a blur of every color, lightning, and even tiny shooting flames; every incantation (verbal and not) was clearly hand-picked from a much vaster store. Neither dueler aimed to kill, nor incapacitate at all – not a single _Stupefy_ or binding curse was uttered. (This, at least, really was only about the journey.) The boys calculated each others’ moves expertly, matching steps to steps, slowly circling each other. They even breathed in concert, until Albus took a breath and Grindelwald beat him to it:

“Imperio.”

Albus’ eyes slid out of focus, and he froze, planted where he stood. “Lower your vand,” Grindelwald continued. The duel raged on, now, entirely inside Albus’ mind. He sifted through memories and swirling emotions, trying to dance around the overwhelming calm the Imperious Curse offered. (Some wizards can throw off the Imperious Curse by sheer power of will or stubbornness; Dumbledore, on the other hand, preferred a more subtle approach.) He made a trade – obedience for disobedience – and allowed the deceptive calm to flow away from his mouth and overtake his arm instead. He lowered his wand to his side, but spoke:

“No Unforgivables, Gellert.”

Grindelwald took three strides towards Dumbledore, leaving mere inches between them, with unbreaking eye contact. “Then _resist me._ ”

And in this paradox, Dumbledore found the combination of emotions he needed and finished his mental waltz to thwart the curse. Once again in control of himself, he lifted his hand – not his wand hand, but his left – and curled his fingers around the back of Grindelwald’s neck. “ _No_ ,” Albus responded, a twinkle having returned to his eye, and kissed his companion.

This had always been their dance. An outsider might mistake it for some perverse hatred, but for all the dangerous curses they hurled at each other, there was not a drop of ill will. Both obsessive men, Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald could duel within an inch of their lives or have dangerously passionate sex, and the result would always be the same: their obsession grew, and grew, and grew. It was, of course, unsustainable. But what teenager, in love and making plans to conquer Death himself, could ever see the danger so brilliantly looming before them?

Albus and Gellert kissed just long enough for complete silence to envelop them, and for them to clearly hear distant footsteps approaching the platform. As their lips parted, Albus pocketed his wand, but kept his hand on the back of Gellert’s neck. 

“Your wand,” Albus reminded Gellert gently.

“Your hand,” Gellert returned. They both sighed, folding into themselves more than one secret the approaching muggle might be appalled to discover. 

“You’re bleeding.”

Albus looked down, noticing for the first time a trickle of red running down his left calf. His knee was burnt and cracked, in the exact shape of the Underground map that had fallen in front of Grindelwald’s first curse (which, apparently, had hit him after all). 

Gellert placed his hand back in his pocket, reaching for his wand. “It vill scar.”

But Albus stopped him with a gentle tap on the arm, light enough that perhaps the muggle approaching them – now feet away – wouldn’t notice. “Let it.”

Little Whinging, Surrey. November 1, 1981.

“Is that where–?” whispered Professor McGonagall. She was still stiff from sitting on the Dursleys’ wall all day, but her attention now was focused entirely on the boy.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee which is a perfect map of the London Underground.”

Minerva didn’t ask. Like so many nonsensical comments Dumbledore uttered, it either was complete balderdash, or a story so deep and complicated no one would dare demand that the hundred-year-old wizard share. Some things were better left unexamined.

As it happens, Dumbledore’s comment was both. Yes, the story behind the scar _was_ deep and complicated -- but it was also nonsense. Albus Dumbledore had not set foot in a tube station since the summer of 1898, the day he and Gellert Grindelwald failed to learn anything about the Elder Wand’s location from Helen and Esther Ollivander. That was the day things began to turn sour; Dumbledore had been content with the sisters’ ignorance, but Grindelwald was convinced they knew more, and he almost tortured them for it. Dumbledore had had to drag his partner away.

The idea of an Underground station seemed stifling, almost unbearable, since then. In a tunnel that deep underground, one is trapped with whatever (or whoever) you bring down with you. If Dumbledore _had_ ever dared to check, he would have found the scar to be completely useless in today’s Underground. It showed only three railway lines, two in a circuit and a third cutting through the middle. In fact, it looked – almost – like a G.


	2. November 1, 1981: The 24-Hour Gap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone makes it clear that the Potters died the night of Halloween, the wizarding world celebrated throughout the day of November 1, and Harry was discovered on the Dursleys’ doorstep the morning of November 2. So, what happened in those 24 hours?

_October 31, 1981. 9:35pm. Hogwarts Castle, Great Hall._

The sun had long since set, and a raucous crowd of children, teenagers, and teachers alike sat contented, full from the Halloween feast. Professor McGonagall smiled at Horace Slughorn, who patted his stomach fondly. (Both professors’ wine goblets were fully drained.) Professor Sprout was chatting animatedly with Filius Flitwick, and Dumbledore looked unusually calm as he gazed out on the mass of students clad in their finest black robes and pointed hats for the occasion.

There were, of course, subtle hints of the war raging in their world. Older students tended to keep their wands at the ready, favoring a spot on the table or even holding them rather than stowing them in their pockets; it seemed an absentminded habit for every professor to periodically glance at the door, at the Slytherin table, out the window, and back at the door. For the most part, however, the room was exactly what it should have been: full of happy children, and a respite for weary adults.

Thunder roared faintly in the distance, but the cloudy enchanted sky had not yet opened up to drench the students below. Just as Dumbledore was standing to dismiss the students, a flash of lightning lit his face and was accompanied by an unexpected pop in front of him. An owl had appeared out of thin air, and screeched one long, haunting note as it landed on the headmaster’s shoulder. In that instant, Dumbledore’s face shifted from a contented calm to teeth-clenching determination. He unravelled the hastily-scribbled note in one quick motion:

_Potters dead. Harry alive. House destroyed. No Dark Mark (?) Send someone quickly -B_

Albus pocketed the note and turned to the students. Many had not even noticed the small owl, but a few older students now were pointing at Dumbledore and whispering. 

“Do you think something’s happened?”

“Bet we’ll find out in the Prophet tomorrow.” 

“Wonder which mudblood kicked the bucket this time,” one student smirked as she straightened her green Prefect pin.

“Students,” Professor Dumbledore said, eliciting silence. “The feast has concluded. Please hasten to your dormitories immediately.” The ending, only fairly abrupt given that most students _had_ finished their dessert, phased few. Albus turned to the staff table and continued to speak as the students were filing out of the Great Hall. “Heads of Houses are to be on watch tonight in the common rooms. The rest, rotate watches at ground entrances. Hagrid, with me.”

Wartime protocols had been established and used for years now. Every so often — when Dumbledore knew there would be a battle, or when there had been attacks multiple days in a row, or somethings just at random — professors would take up posts and keep watch throughout the night. The castle’s protections were almost certainly enough to keep them safe from even an army of Death Eaters, but it made the professors feel as though they were actually _doing_ something to help. (They were already doing enough; teachers who ensure that children grow up free from hatred are often the most important soldiers.)

Dumbledore strode quickly out of the Great Hall, Hagrid beside him. “What d'ya need, Professor?”

“Harry Potter has survived an attack in Godric’s Hollow. You must fetch him before anyone else does. Keep him safe, away from other people. I will contact you tomorrow with a plan, but for now you must _take him away_. Fizz Wizz.” Dumbledore stopped at his office entrance, and turned to Hagrid as the spiral staircase slowly emerged. “Rubeus, Lily and James are dead.”

Hagrid closed his eyes and took one long, deep breath. “No,” he whispered.

Dumbledore, ever the strategist, at this point had lost hundreds of companions. After two great Wizarding Wars — in both of which he acted as a general of sorts — his ability to compartmentalize was almost inhuman. “Hagrid, you must wait to grieve. Harry needs you now.” The two wizards proceeded into the Headmaster’s Office, and Dumbledore handed Hagrid a small pot of floo powder. “Bathilda Bagshot’s Home, Godric’s Hollow,” he said, ushering Hagrid towards his fireplace. He gestured towards Hagrid’s pink umbrella and added, “Use whatever magic you feel necessary.”

_October 31, 9:42pm. Godric’s Hollow._

Hagrid emerged from the fireplace with some difficulty, banging his head twice on the flue. He shook his feet over fireplace floor, trying not to track too much ash into the carpeted living room. “Hello?” he called.

A silent moment passed, and Hagrid gripped his pink umbrella tighter. Was it a trap?

Just then, a blinding light soared through the window, taking the shape of a badger. It spoke with Bathilda’s voice: “Friend or foe?”

Hagrid glanced furtively around — even permission from Dumbledore had never been enough to set him at ease with doing magic — and waved his umbrella. “ _Expecto Patronum Dicentem,”_ he said, and when the massive dragon had fully formed, continued, “Friend.” The badger nodded, and Hagrid waved his umbrella a final time, vanishing his patronus.

The badger’s voice — Bathilda’s voice — was light and croaking. “I have Harry in the upstairs bedroom over at the Potters’ house. Come quickly, the muggles are starting to wake up.”

Sure enough, Hagrid could see lights on all over the neighborhood, and wizards and muggles alike stumbling out of their houses to investigate the racket. He made his way out of Bathilda’s house, through the small crowd, and up to the front door of the Potters’ house. Some of the muggles seemed to be rubbing their eyes and looking in confusion at each other. 

“I’ve… Rob, am I crazy? I don’t remember seeing this house before.” 

“No, Mary, of course you have. It’s right across the street.” (But Rob didn’t seem convinced himself.)

Hagrid ducked through the front doorway and over the rubble that covered most of the floor. The walls were charred and smoking, and a burnt hole gaped in the second floor of the house. Bathilda was in the Potters’ bedroom, across the hallway from the room — Harry’s room, crib still in tact — that had suffered the most damage. 

“Oh, Harry!” Hagrid cried. “Is he okay?”

A tiny old woman with bright white hair was sitting on James’ and Lily’s bed, rocking Harry, who was wailing loudly. His forehead was red and blistering. “Yes, just upset,” Bathilda replied. “Hagrid, Albus needs to come examine the house. I can’t be sure without him, but—” she paused, and swallowed. “I think He’s— I think He’s _gone_.”

Hagrid nodded, eyes wide. “Okay. Alrigh’. Yeah. I— Dumbledore’ll be here soon. Bu’ I have ter take Harry. Dumbledore’s orders.” 

Bathilda nodded and began conjuring items Harry might need for the journey. After she compiled a basket, a blanket, and some mushy food for the baby, she handed the bundle to Hagrid. Harry had stopped screaming, though he was still fussing enough that Bathilda had to re-wrap him in the blanket twice. “Good luck,” Bathilda wished Hagrid as he closed the front door behind him. 

At least twelve people had gathered in the street, and Hagrid could hear three distinct rumblings in the distance: one of thunder, one of the approaching police cars, and one of a single motorbike driving towards the Potters’ at full speed.

“HAGRID!” the driver yelled, coming to a screeching halt. His dark hair was windswept, and his usually handsome face was contorted with some unrecognizable combination of grief and mania. “Hagrid, where is— have you seen—” 

“Oh Sirius, I’m so sorry, they’re—”

Sirius Black interrupted the half-giant. “I _SEE THAT_ , _HAGRID_. Have— can you—” He clenched his teeth. “Hagrid, you should give Harry to me. I can keep him safe. I’m his godfather.”

Hagrid put his hand on Sirius’ shoulder, intending to comfort, but his trash-can-lid-sized hand had enough force to drive Sirius half an inch into the grass he was standing on. “I can’, I’m sorry, Dumbledore’s orders. I got ter take him, bu’ I’m sure you’ll see him soon.” 

Some last glint of hope left Sirius’ eyes; they were now a complete void. “Then take him with my motorbike. I don’t need it anymore.”

_October 31, 11:20pm. Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales._

Hagrid finally touched down in a national park in Wales, hoping his Disillusionment charm and Silencing spells had been enough to hide the loud motorbike from any muggles. He cast as many Muggle-repelling and protections spells on a small clearing as he could think of, and sat down against a tree. He set Harry down in the basket next to him. Hagrid’s weight made the enormous tree bend and creak, but it held steady, and baby Harry slept on.

_November 1, 3:24am. Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales._

Harry rolled over in his basket and started squirming. “Mama?” he mumbled sleepily. 

Hagrid, who had fished a vial of Wideye Potion out of one of his many coat pockets just moments before, used his thumb to push the hair out of Harry’s eyes. His thumb was the size of Harry’s entire head, and the baby blinked again.

“Mama’s not here, but it’s alrigh’. Everythin’s gonna be alrigh’.”

Hagrid breathed a sigh of relief when, finally, a bright white phoenix appeared before him. It spoke in Dumbledore’s voice: “Keep Harry away from everyone. Unless you hear from me otherwise, tonight bring Harry to Number 4, Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey.”

Moments later, another patronus appeared — this time, a cat. “Where the _devil_ are you, Hagrid? We’ve all been up all night. They’re saying Lily and James are dead, but Dumbledore disappeared the second you did.” Minerva’s voice was, if possible, even more stern than when she spoke to her students. “Tell me where he is. We can’t be left in the dark like this, Hagrid, and you know it.”

Hagrid chuckled, and sent his patronus right back to McGonagall. “He told me ter meet him a’ 4 Privet Drive in Surrey. Meet us there too, Professor?”

_November 1, 8:30am. Little Whinging, Surrey._

Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. A cat had taken up a post on the wall outside, watching the muggles through her spectacle-spotted eyes.

_November 1, 12:25pm. Downtown Staines, Surrey_.

On his way back from lunch, Vernon Dursley bumped straight into a man dressed in a violet cloak. “Sorry,” he grunted, but the man’s face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!”

_November 1, 1:00pm. Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales._

Hagrid was _exhausted_. Harry, on the other hand, seemed an endless supply of pure energy. He was running circles around the clearing, tripping over tree roots, laughing, and doing it all over again. Hagrid had set an owl loose, which Harry was happily chasing (perhaps, Hagrid thought, it looked like a children’s practice snitch? It certainly was the right color, and only a little bigger than the kinds you could get at toy stores that hovered only two feet off the ground for young witches and wizards to chase). 

Hagrid had done everything he could think of to entertain the near-toddler. He told Harry a story; he bounced him on his knee; he let him dig through every pocket of Hagrid’s massive cloak. In the end, this was the only activity that successfully distracted Harry’s constant one-word questions: “Mama? Da?”

_November 1, 8:05pm. Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales_.

“Alrigh’, alrigh’, let’s go,” Hagrid said as he scooped Harry into his basket. He loaded everything into the motorbike and started the engine just as Harry was beginning to yawn.

_November 1, 11:58pm. Little Whinging, Surrey._

“I should have known. Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”

_November 2, 12:05am. Little Whinging, Surrey._

“Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”

“Yes. And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me _why_ you’re here, of all places?”

“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now.”

_November 2, 7:45am. Little Whinging, Surrey_.

Petunia Dursley opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, and a boy in a basket, red scar still blistering on his forehead, woke to a scream.


	3. The Missing 9 Uses of Dragon's Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only 3 of the uses of dragon blood that Dumbledore discovered are mentioned in canon (uh, if "canon" includes LA Times interviews...?) so here are the rest.

1\. Cure for Verruca (Plantar warts).

2\. Spot remover on soft surfaces.

3\. Primary ingredient for salve to heal dragon-fire wounds.

4\. Permanent ink on hard surfaces, if administered with wand tip. Can only be removed by dragon fire, which (unfortunately) usually destroys the medium on which the ink was used altogether.

5\. Substitute for cooking wine.

6\. Indistinguishable from human blood in every aspect except taste. Acts as O-negative type blood, which can replenish blood in the muggle fashion. Has no ill effects on wizards. Following the use on muggles and squibs, even the blandest of foods taste slightly spicier.

7\. Weed killer.

8\. Painless tattoo ink, if administered with a standard tattooing spell (whereas standard ink causes nearly as much pain/irritation as muggle tattooing methods).

9\. Provides temporary relief from pain of most wounds.

10\. Can act as a magic channel for long or short distances. This is why dragon heartstrings are excellent wand cores. Over long distances, for example, one could paint a thin line of dragon blood on the ground for a mile; a spell casted on one end of the line would be equally (or more) powerful at any other point on that line. This is useful for spells which would be dangerous to cast up close (dealing with large creatures, building demolitions, etc.). This method is untraceable - _prior incantatem_ does not work without the wand itself which cast the spell - so this use can cause a number of legal issues.

11\. Ingredient in many newly-developed potions, most notably the Wolfsbane potion. Counteracts the poisonous aspect of wolfsbane (aconite).

12\. Oven cleaner.


End file.
